The Runaway
by Lunarain137
Summary: How does one become The World's Only Consulting Detective? It's not quite the simple tale as one might think. Sherlock's younger days weren't the easiest especially as a child genius turned graduate drop out, he spent most of his days antagonizing the police and getting in trouble but trouble comes in the form of a string of murders all pointing toward Sherlock as the main suspect.


Well has it really been that long?

-LM

Has it really been ages since we last saw each other?

-LM

Sherlock... I remember when I first met you. You were a wreck...  
-LM

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LONDON. 15 APRIL 2005.

It was raining, pouring really, the kind of rain that makes one feel as though they're better off at home with a cuppa watching crap telly.

The streets were dark and the acrid smells of the city were amplified by the heavy drops that fell from the sky. Hardly anyone braved the weather on days like this and woe to those who did.

The bleakness of the dark clouds overhanging the city gave off the impression of foreboding. It was late, close to midnight and the last of the London crowd had dissipated into Taxis and gone to their homes. A man in his late forties walked out unto the pavement near the large office building he worked in. He glanced up at the sky as the heavy drops of rain continued to fall, splashing impressively as they landed on the pavement before him. He glanced at his watch, his driver was late.

Dialing the number to his driver's mobile he happened to glance toward the opposite side of the road. Another figure was across the way, a homeless man by the looks of his clothes, they were dark but tattered and practically ripped to shreds. The figure was tall but thin and gave off the impression that he was dangerous.

He shrugged and looked away but he couldn't shake the cold feeling the figure across the road left him. The phone rang, but no one answered. He cursed as the voicemail greeting began to play and hung up not bothering to leave a message then glanced around hoping there was a Taxi nearby.

There wasn't any cars passing by and he looked again across the street and was startled to see the figure was closer, or seemed closer. It was hard to tell in the heavy rain but then he noticed with a bit of anxiety that the figure seemed to be staring right at him. He didn't like the bleakness of the face or the mechanical angle the head of the figure was held and decided he might as well brave the weather than stay, even though he had no ride he didn't want to stay in the peripheral of that man or shadow that was looking at him.

He began walking across the pavement toward the next street, he was sure he could catch a bus around the corner.

The rain began falling even heavier than before. He groaned as he shielded his eyes against the rain as it battered into his face. The wind was especially brutal and the drops were heavy as they fell upon his already soaked coat and it absolutely chilled him to the bone. Up ahead there was an alley that was a short cut to the next street, it was little, dark, and certainly not a place he would normally go, but given the circumstances he was desperate to get home as soon as possible.

The narrow little alley was a close space between two very large buildings and they had obstructed some of the rain leaving a clearing into the next street. The man nearly leapt for joy when he saw the clearing. However, as he turned into the alley, he suddenly got the feeling he was being followed.

Despite the cold rain he could feel the hair on the back of his neck pricking up, he could feel the pressure of unseen eyes on his back as if they were trying to dig a hole right through him. He heightened his pace and braved a glace behind him. There was something behind him, something that resembled the tall and thin man that seemed to be made up of nothing more than a shadow. The man began to trot but the next thing he knew the shadow was right behind him. Startled he began running away from the shadow, or whatever it was, as quickly as his legs could carry him. He didn't know who or what was behind him, or if there was anything behind him at all, he just knew he needed to run or he would die.

The figure after him merely walked steadily ahead, it didn't seem to be in a hurry nor did it seem to mind the rain. It's tattered clothes and long, black, ripped up trench coat flitted about him as he walked with a learnt elegance, his shoulders back and impossibly straight and his head leveled at perfect mechanical angle as he stalked his prey.

The poor victim had the delusion of getting away. He tried, lord knows he did, but in panic he slipped up. They all do. He had quickly turned into the next street and ran faster than he had ever tried before. He had dared a glance back to see if his pursuer was still behind him, a faint hope that he somehow shook him, but alas he didn't see the blasted curb.

The next thing he knew his face was hot and cold with blood and the hard pavement. The pain made him dizzy the salt in the rain stung at his wounds. His fight or flight didn't register as the figure approached him with graceful ease. He could see now that his pursuer was not a shadow but a man. His eyes an unnaturally vivid blue, his hair tousled in wet spiraling dark curls, his figure tall and looming. He was very skinny and fragile looking, but the man knew this being was anything but fragile he emulated danger as his full bow like lips twitched at a corner looking amused.

The victim tried to scoot away but he barely moved when the other, in one fluid motion, stabbed a silver needle like knife into his heart. The man chocked a bit but then died, his life blood slipping out of his into the drains with the rain water.

The killer sighed with discontent. It wasn't what he had hoped. He carefully wiped the blade with a gloved hand and replaced it in its sheath then slid it into a hidden pocket in his coat. He then stood up and spun around. "Pity" was the only word to escape his lips as he began walking away. He removed one of his leather gloves from his hand to retrieve a lighter from his pocket, removing the other glove with his teeth not really minding that the blood of his victim had rubbed off on his face. He cast the gloves into a bin that was shielded from the rain and dropped the lighter in. It burned with the rubbish in a dull orange glow that lit the corner of the street quite brightly despite the rain.

He stood staring at it in silence, as the burning flames danced around the rim of the bin turning the last bit of evidence against him into charcoal and ash. He wiped the blood off his chin and licked his fingers. The taste made him wince in disgust, "Bloody alcoholic."

He cast a last look down the alley and smiled a grim sadistic smile that would give anyone who looked at it a reason to run and pray to never see that face again. He turned then to the darkness and disappeared completely ignoring the CCTV cameras watching him.

He didn't care, they wouldn't come after _him_, and he was hoping "Big Brother" was watching.

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HI everyone! So this is my first Sherlock Fanfiction! It's not going to be quite what you expect but I hope you enjoy it!

Disclaimer:I do not own BBC Sherlock!


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